he fell, jumped, or got tossed over the cliff by Captain Broome’s vengeful ghost.
I’m okay here. Better than okay. And when the cops come around—and I know they will—I’ll deal with it. I’m ready to.
Now, stop scowling at the screen, and I know you are. Go find somebody else to worry about.
That would do it, he decided. She’d be a little annoyed, a little amused, and hopefully trust he’d told her the truth.
With a second cup of coffee and a bagel at his desk, he opened the file on his work in progress, and let himself slide back into the story while the sun climbed over the sea.
He’d switched to Mountain Dew, and the last two cookies, when the doorbell no one ever used echoed its first notes from “Ode to Joy”—a favorite of his grandmother’s.
Taking his time, he shut down his work, stuck the half-finished soft drink in the office fridge, then headed down as the notes rang out a second time.
He’d expected the cop at his door. He hadn’t expected two of them, or the unhappily familiar face of Detective Art Wolfe from Boston.
The younger one—military haircut, solidly square face, placid blue eyes and a gym rat’s body—held up his badge. “Eli Landon.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Detective Corbett with the Essex County Sheriff’s Department. I believe you know Detective Wolfe.”
“Yeah, we’ve met.”
“We’d like to come in and speak with you.”
“All right.”
Directly against his lawyer’s advice, he stepped back to let them in. He’d already made the decision, and hell, he’d been a lawyer himself. He understood the idea behind “Don’t say anything, call me, refer all questions to me.”
But he couldn’t live that way. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, keep living that way.
So he led them into the big parlor.
He’d built a fire earlier, in anticipation of just this. It simmered low now, adding warmth and atmosphere to a room comfortable with its art and antiques. One where the high tray ceiling welcomed the light spilling through the tall windows, and the view of the front garden where hardy green spears of daffodils waved and a single brave yellow bloom trumpeted.
He felt a bit like that himself. Ready to face what came and show his true colors.
“Some house,” Corbett commented. “I’ve seen it from the outside, and it sure makes a statement. Makes one on the inside, too.”
“Home’s where you hang your hat. If you’ve got one. We might as well sit down.”
He took an internal scan of himself as he did. His palms weren’t damp, his heart wasn’t racing, his throat wasn’t dry. All good signs.
And still, looking into that bulldog set of Wolfe’s face, those hard, flat brown eyes kept him wary.
“We appreciate the time, Mr. Landon.” Corbett did a scan of his own, of the room, of Eli, as he took a chair. “You might have heard we’ve had an incident.”
“I heard a body was found near the lighthouse yesterday.”
“That’s correct. I believe you were acquainted with the deceased. Kirby Duncan.”
“No, I wasn’t. I never met him.”
“But you knew of him.”
“I know he said he was a private investigator out of Boston, and he was asking questions about me.”
Corbett took out a notebook, as much a prop as a tool, Eli knew.
“Isn’t it true you stated to the police you believed Kirby Duncan had broken into this house on Thursday night?”
“He was my first thought when I learned about the break-in, and I gave his name to the responding officer. That’s Deputy Vincent Hanson.” As you damn well know. “However, the woman who was attacked during the break-in, who had met and spoken with Duncan earlier, stated unequivocally that it wasn’t Duncan, as the man who grabbed her had a taller, leaner build. Added to that, when Deputy Hanson spoke with Duncan that night, Duncan produced receipts that proved he was in Boston at the time of the break-in.”
“Must’ve pissed you off, him coming here, stirring things up.”
Eli shifted his gaze to Wolfe. There’d be no polite Q&A here, Eli thought. “I wasn’t happy about it, but more, I wondered who hired him to come here, follow me around, ask questions.”
“Easy answer is somebody interested in finding out what you’re up to.”
“And the easy answer to that is I’m up to adjusting, working, taking care of Bluff House while my grandmother recuperates. Since Duncan wouldn’t have had any more than that to report to his client or clients, I have to figure they were wasting their money. But that’s their choice.”
“Your wife’s homicide investigation’s still open, Landon. You’re still